


Truth or Drink

by mixedwithintellect



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: AU, Angst, Break Up, Exes, F/M, Love, Love Confessions, Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-02 18:58:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15802599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mixedwithintellect/pseuds/mixedwithintellect
Summary: the one where it's worth a shot, but is it worth the truth?A/N: Hi! This fic is based off of this video series by Cut (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=auBSJIJ_C_8) . I fell in love with the idea and I thought I would do a piece on it. I hope you enjoy! 11.4k





	Truth or Drink

It hadn’t seemed real until you were there.

The set was more professional than you had expected. Considering how much time you had spent with Harry’s old circle of friends, you had anticipated a low budget, maybe with the setting being a friend’s house. But it was genuinely in a production studio warehouse, with props and expensive equipment. You kept forgetting that Harry was doing much better for himself now.

They even had a snack tray, for Christ’s sake.

A sizable crew of people milled around the outskirts of the set, their shoes crinkling up the paper that cascaded down two poles, creating a white wall and floor in front of the camera. The director’s seat was empty and the camera was given a wide berth.

A wooden table had been set up in the middle of the paper floor, with three bottles of alcohol, two glasses of orange juice, and two shot glasses on top. The set-up was cute, probably ‘aesthetic’, but regardless, it sent shivers down your spine. Two chairs sat beside the table, angled out towards the expectant camera and muttering crew. Waiting for you, waiting for him.

It hadn’t seemed real until he showed up.

* * *

In a sweater colored with muted hues of greens and tans, and sunglasses pulling back his hair, Harry looked unbearably familiar. In an unsettling way, like you had watched a movie starring him at 3 am and woke up the next morning, dusty and vague memories of him coating your tongue and settling against your pillows.

It even fell down to the way he was walking, how his stance lingered more on the left than the right, and how his eyes swept the room. And how he could make you feel like the only one in the world, when his eyes landed on you and he smiled. He smiled as if you both had a secret no one else could understand, because that was partially the truth.

His boots sounded crisp on the paper. He was clipping his microphone against the collar of his shirt, ducking his head down momentarily to eyeball whether it was right. Which was a reminder of how this was all to be made public, how you two were to broadcast your conversation to countless of strangers who never asked for it, but would readily comment.

And that hadn’t seemed like something Harry would normally be willing to do, but to be fair, you hadn’t spoken to the man for almost a year.

It hadn’t seemed real until it was.

The two of you didn’t properly acknowledge each other, not in the way you would’ve if the meeting had been a casual one. Not riddled with anticipation and nerves.

Instead, you two chose to settle in the chairs and keep your attention on the objects around you. There had been smiles exchanged but the air was still thick, feeling like starch against the back of your throat. You both invented itches on your arms, a sudden interest in how your sleeves were rolled, etc, and ignored that the other was doing the same.

Harry shifted the shot glass so it was closer to him, as if anticipating the inevitable slosh of drunken choices he’d make soon. It was more likely than not, that you two – usually fairly private – would rather drink than confess anything.

“Looks like whiskey, vodka, and-” Harry opened up the third bottle, grasping onto the lid as he held up the bottle to his nose. “-maybe tequila?”

He glanced over, eyebrows raised as he tilted the bottle, presumably for you to smell as well. Perhaps there was hope in his eyes that you two could proceed with grace and without properly acknowledging the iceberg of problems between you.

The fact he could sit there and treat the situation so casually, was so frustratingly  _Harry_  that you weren’t sure how you had expected anything different. It had been a long while since you had been near him, but he still knew how to try and make you feel at ease. Like he could still read your mind as well as he had a year ago, that he could feel your discomfort and wanted to make amends.

The problem had been, and still was, that he tried to make up for whatever had gone wrong, without fully acknowledging what had actually gone wrong to begin with. His words never laid out flat what the issue was, and so you had often been left dissatisfied, searching for a resolution that he wasn’t offering.

You sniffed the bottle, because of course you did, wrinkling up your nose as you nodded. Tequila. Some strangled noise came from your throat, and Harry was clearly expecting it, for he giggled and plugged up the bottle again.

You hated tequila.

“Thanks fo’ coming, by the way. Didn’t think you’d agree to it,” he confessed, his fingers lingering on the sides of the bottle as he feigned interest in organizing them. As if a straighter line of liquor would wash away the tension, how quiet you had been, and how strangely surreal the next half hour would be.

Shifting in the seat, you crossed your legs and flexed out your foot. Getting comfortable in a situation that was anything  _but_  was not your forte by any means. It was your job as an interior designer, for Christ’s sake, to make every environment graceful and cozy.

But the tension between you two had another layer on top, which was your inherent nature of despising the something not being positioned correctly.

In this case, it was the fact you were even in the room.

“No problem. Sounded interesting. Thanks for-” you paused, unsure of what to say but feeling as though you ought to thank him back, “-thinking of me?”

Harry let out a laugh, unexpected by you, and apparently from him as well. Not that you had anticipated a change, or were even trying to notice, but his nose still wiggled when he smiled.

For the first moment since your friend had dropped you off in the parking lot ten minutes prior, you felt settled. Perhaps not confident enough to last through the list of questions without a single tear, but confident enough that you were both in the  _same_  situation. You and Harry could make it work and be alright.

It was a situation set up with the consent of each of you, after all, although that didn’t take away the nervous butterflies and worms writhing around in your chest.

Harry poured each of you a shot of whiskey, holding out the glass like a sense of a peace offering. Alcohol had never been your safe havens, but you figured it was alright to pitch a tent for a day.

You accepted it gratefully, making sure your fingers wouldn’t graze against his as you took the drink. Knocking it back felt like a rude awakening, but a necessary one, to approach what was coming.

The wall of paper rustled behind you, and the director popped his head around the corner. His name-tag read  _Chris_ , and you recognized the name as one of Harry’s newer friends, not one of the friends who would recognize you, which was a relief.

Chris was the reason Harry was doing the show, it seemed, as voluntarily airing past relationships was slightly out of character for Harry. His sense of duty towards his friends seemed to outweigh his typical cloak of privacy, and you couldn’t say you were altogether surprised. It didn’t clarify why he had asked you to be the ex on the show, though. He had a handful of others who were more likely to generate “viral content” with their outlandish drama, you knew, yet he had asked you.

“Thank you both for getting here on time. We can go ahead and get started if that’s okay,” Chris clasped his hands together, strutting past the table and towards his director’s chair. He was wearing plaid pants that swished against his legs as they moved, and that was the only noise in the room for a few seconds. Harry and you looked at each other, a bit uneasy that the moment had come upon you both so quickly. He quirked an eyebrow, as if to say there was no reason to delay it any longer. You took a deep breath and nodded.

“Okay, here’s how it’ll work. Martha will put these cards on the table. One of you will read out the question and the other will answer. If the person answering chooses  _not_  to, that person will have to take a shot. Easy enough. If you wanted to elaborate with your answers, we encourage that as well. And if you need to take a moment, let us know, but the camera stays rolling.”

It was a lot of information at once, and you found yourself nodding without comprehending as Chris rambled on. Your mind, ever the traitor, was stuck on how a week ago Harry had texted you. It was truly out of the blue, since your break up hadn’t resulted in a good, or even shaky, friendship, and you had felt certain he had deleted your number.

_Hey, it’s Harry Styles. Know you probably don’t want to hear from me, but I have a favor to ask. My friend is doing a new Internet series where exes get together and talk about their relationship, and he wanted to know if I would be willing. Thought of you. Interested? Xxx._

At first, you weren’t sure. The situation seemed like a disaster waiting to happen, if you were being honest. Darkened skies and trees blowing enough to the point their trunks swayed in the wind - that sort of disaster.

There was something about seeing his face that would send you spiraling off, bubbling anger and frustration swelling up your chest when you stumbled on his Instagram those few times. And then those times when you looked him up. And then those times when you took a screenshot the particularly good photos and went back to them when you were in a pit of self-despair. But only those  ~~many~~  few times.

“Sounds good,” Harry was saying, and you chimed in with similar agreement. Martha, presumably, moved forward and put the cards on the table. There were a sizable number of questions, enough to keep you two interested in the game and not to be tempted to drink on every one.

Which had been your plan.

“Alright, just introduce yourselves to the camera and then go ahead,” Chris gestured outwards, smiling, before settling back in his seat.

Chris’ facial expression shifted into something more serious, the friendly facade morphing into a professional stare, which made you feel incredibly aware of how awfully slouched you were. You felt like you were in front of your parents, or a teacher, like you were a kid again and had to present yourself well.

Sitting up, you turned towards the camera. It was a large, black pit of emotionless indifference. It was going to record everything and wouldn’t have the decency to look away, if tears were to fall or if blood were to be shed.

Which didn’t feel too melodramatic, if you were being honest.

Harry introduced himself as  _Harry,_  an art teacher, and gave a gentle wave paired with one of his charming smiles. You followed suit, opting to just fold your arms against the table, as you introduced yourself as an interior designer.

The truth extended a bit beyond that for the both of you, with Harry also owning a popular photography Instagram working to introduce inner-city kids to film tech. And you were working with the local homeless shelters in the area to improve structural efficiency, as well as beginning your line of eco-friendly furniture.

But the two of you had become wrapped in the other’s threads of intimacy when you were merely an art teacher and an interior designer, and it would be easier to hark back a year ago if you were no longer attached to today’s version of yourselves.

Perhaps it was a hope for the past to emerge once more.

“How long did you two date?” Chris prompted.

“Two and a half years,” Harry answered.

“And how long ago was that?”

Harry looked over at you, raising his eyebrows silently asking you to be the one to answer. You knew he knew, that the wounds were still fresh and it wasn’t some ex-relationship lost in the foggy realm of his mind. So, you obliged, replying steadily and only taking your eyes away from Harry’s for a brief moment.

“About a year ago.”

And then, abruptly, it was simply you and Harry.

The crew faded away, when you two settled in against the backs of the seats and looked at each other. Harry seemed to be toying with some type of smile, probably more out of discomfort than genuinely finding humor in the situation.

“Should I go first?” Harry offered, reaching over towards the pile.

“Yeah, go for it.”

You shifted your legs once more, crossing them so the other was on top. Your fingers rested on the edge of the table, curling against the wood and waiting for Harry to speak.

> “ **Describe how you feel about me right now.”**

Harry began chewing on his lip, not harshly, but enough for you to pick up on his nerves. His eyes shot over to the bottles, thinking you’d immediately cop out, but you began to respond.

“I feel like...” you sighed, dropping your gaze from his inquisitive eyes as you collected your thoughts, “I feel like you’re an ex. And that’s not saying a  _lot_  but that’s the best way to describe it.”

You nodded, satisfied with your answer.

“Is that a bad thing?” Harry asked.

You shrugged.

“It just is. Feels like an ending brought back up.”

And it did. You had grown a lot since you two had left the other as a broken shell, and meeting up again felt like a continuation that wasn’t supposed to be. Unnatural was a word to describe how your eyes settled on the small parts of him, deciphering what was different now, yet there was a thread of normalcy in how you two could understand the other like an instinct buried deep away. 

“Ah, it’s the bad sequel,” he mused, with a grin that deepened against his cheeks when you laughed. With a smirk to himself, he put down the card in the discard pile.

It felt a bit easier than you had expected, to sit across from him. The bitter words you two had left stewing in the other’s mind had apparently evaporated for the time being. Texting Harry back your confirmation while drunk and alone on a Friday night could maybe be chalked down as a good life decision, if the goodwill carried on throughout the video.

“What about you?” you prompted. You weren’t sure if that was allowed, if the game permitted for you to turn the question onto him. But you were intrigued by the ability to ask him whatever, to find out the depths of Harry you never thought you’d be privy to again, under the guise of something that could be easily excused.

“Me?” he asked, needlessly, for there was no one else you could be asking.

“I feel kinda the same,” he spoke as if it were a question, but continued on with building confidence, “I dunno much about yeh life anymore. Remember how we’d go out on the fire escape ‘n just talked-” you smiled at that, because it was one of those things that couldn’t be remembered without being cherished “-but I also remember how we fought. Especially on tha’ last night. But it doesn’t feel bad to be here. Not wha’ I expected.”

You nodded as he spoke, already feeling the analysis of his word choice kick into gear in the depths of your brain. Nothing he said rose red flags, though, and to a sad extent, you understood him. It hadn’t been as painful as your friends had tried to convince you it would be when you were leaving the apartment that morning.

“Alright, my turn?” you looked over to Chris, who nodded towards the pile. It seemed a bit ominous, with Harry being the one to potentially answer now. Because you had control over what was said a moment ago but now it was truly up to him. It made you nervous

> “ **Did you ever have the chance to cheat on me, and did you?”**

Time almost seemed to stop, an unbearable delicacy in the way your eyes held contact with his own. An impressive acknowledgment that whatever he said, and especially the moves his body would make, held the potential of ripping a shred into the both of you.

“I had a chance.” Harry nodded slowly, and his fingers began to twist around themselves on the table. “With...with a mutual friend.”

You nodded, not even needing him to go on further. You knew who it was.

* * *

_Melanie._

_You valued female support and girl love for one another, but Melanie was just a straight up bitch. In the ways that men never could see, because the complexities of female language would twist around the way she eyed women up, the way her lips would curl around each false compliment, as if snapping its neck. Her words had a double meaning that only girls could decode, a simple system that carved knives down their back as she manipulated situations to her fancy._

_She was in a ‘game’ no one else was playing, but she was in it for blood._

_Perhaps insecurities could be an excuse, maybe there were lingering traumas in her childhood that had morphed her into the beast she was today. But it was easier for you to shut down those ideas and accept her in the monstrosity she had become, one way or another, and keep your hand firmly in Harry’s whenever you all were out together._

_She had a thing for Harry._

_She would sidle up next to him in the booth, when the lights were low enough to mask her demon-slit eyes and let him be blind to the venom-soaked tongue that flicked out of her mouth with two prongs._

_(You were being dramatic, but that’s neither here nor there)._

_She would be cuddly with him, and Harry would insist to you that they were just friends. When his phone went_   _off with her name splashed on it for the fifth time in ten minutes, he’d make up excuses. Say she was interested in his record collection, that she had sent him a link to some obscure new photography magazine that Celtic porn stars had created downtown. It was nothing incriminating but Melanie had her code, and it seemed only you knew how to read it. He was protective over her, almost, and it had bugged you to no end._

_You never called him out with direct accusations, though, because you had never thought of him as the cheating type._

_You’d always assumed Melanie was in it for the attention and would stop before any buttons could slip out of their hold._

_It seemed you had assumed wrong._

* * *

“When was it?” you found yourself asking, the question bursting through before you could have enough time to address whether you wanted to know.

“A week before we broke up.” Harry had the decency to look unsettled, clearing his throat and glancing around the room. “I was taking her home after that night out, the one when we went to tha’ bar and we fought so yeh left early-” you nodded, so he cut to the chase, almost gratefully “-and she wanted me to kiss her when we reached the door.”

“Did you?”

Harry shook his head, his lips pursing together as he swallowed.

“No, didn’t.”

You nodded, feeling a swoosh of satisfaction dipping into your lungs. Even though you couldn’t call him yours anymore, the fact that you both had stayed honest made you feel better.

Made you realize that even though your break up felt like exposed film, negatives that could never be altered into something bursting of color, you two still had the foundation of respect. The pictures were still beautiful, even if you couldn’t see what they were.

“You?”

Glancing up from the card to Harry, you noticed his head was tilted down, his eyes up. He was the one who was unsure, now. The delicacy remained and your head tilted to the side as you replied evenly.

“No, never.”

“Ever had the chance?”

You paused, letting the question sink in.

“I guess from random guys at bars ‘n stuff, but I always said I was with you.”

Harry nodded, leaning back somewhat, as if the answer had lightened some burden.

“Was never sure about Shawn, to be honest. Thought he had a thing for you,” Harry confessed with a shrug, a light smile on his lips. His eyes were still honest, still serious, still had the heaviness that you felt in your soul.

You weren’t sure what to say, with the bright lights and the rolling camera, so you just put the card down and nodded up at him.

It was his turn now.

Another card drawn.

> “ **What do you miss the most about us?”**

“Our friendship.” Your answer was immediate, no thinking required. “We had so much respect for each other. I remember feeling so in awe about how persistent you were - like the time you crashed the governor’s party to debate school board funding?”

Harry grinned at that, his eyes crinkling more than usual at the memory, as you continued.

“We knew everything about each other, always had the other’s back, and now we just...”

Your hand waved off towards the crew, although it was meant more as a general ‘nothingness’ gesture, but Harry nodded. He almost looked relieved. A more permanent smile was on his lips, and you knew there was one on yours. It was impossible not to look back on that aspect without a consuming sense of fondness, an adoration for what had been.

“Feels weird tha’ I see still yeh face everywhere now, but like...I don’t even know how your family is doing,” Harry said and he glanced up at you, a slant to his eyebrows that spoke more than he could on camera.

“He’s fine,” you murmured, and Harry’s eyes glimmered somewhat. You could tell he was happy for you and you wondered if it were your imagination misleading you when he readjusted on the seat, and his hand went out on the table. Not close enough to be against yours, but it was possible he was trying.

* * *

“ _Did tha’ fucker kick you out?” Greg yelled towards the street, as if Harry were lurking behind a streetlamp watching you shuffle on the doorstep. The street echoed quietly back Greg’s words, without a reply, not even an indignant shout_   _from the neighbors._

“ _No,” you sniffled, and Greg’s attention was brought back to you. He opened his door wider so_   _you could_   _step out of the rain, looking once more up and down the street, as if still unsure of Harry’s location. Then, he stepped_   _inside as well._

“ _I just needed someplace to go. C-can’t stay at the apartment. Everything’s j-just a mess right now, y’know?”_

_Your eyes had kept on the floor, but Greg lifted up your chin with his fingers. He was staring at you in some odd type of way._

_Somehow comforting, you supposed, but not having spoken to Greg in forever, you weren’t particularly sure if it was judgment or sympathy he was feeling towards the situation. He hadn’t seemed to approve of Harry the one time they met, but the entire evening hadn’t gone well for your family, so it was impossible to tell._

“ _I understand. Stay as long as you need, ‘kay?” His answer surprised you and also didn’t. You knew he wouldn’t have let you past his doorstep if he was still angry._

_It seemed the pain left by Harry was enough to forgive the harsh dispute that had cracked open your ribcage first, the fighting that had stirred up your temper to high enough levels to really go at it with your boyfriend. Or ex, now, it seemed._

“ _I’m sor-”_

“ _Don’t.” Greg’s voice cracked at the end, and you blinked in surprise. “We’re family. Beyond the blood or marriages or what-fuckin’-ever, that’s what we are. I love you, and that’s not going to change. All that shit doesn’t matter right now, ‘kay?” You nodded._

_And that was the first conversation you had with Greg in all twenty-five years of your life, that didn’t end with screaming. It was the first time since you could remember that your half-brother hugged you and told you he loved you._

_It was the first step the both of you took towards healing._

* * *

“And I have no clue how your pet fish is getting on,” you replied, as if your drama with your half-sibling would appropriately compare to Harry’s fish episodes.

You two had bought a pet fish, about a year and a half ago, for one of Harry’s projects – back when he was paying for all of the supplies but was still determined to get the kids what they needed – but Goldie kept dying, and every one of Goldie’s descendants died, as well, none lasting a month and most not seeing it through a week.

Harry laughed.

“No more fish, actually. Decided to stop trying,” he explained, and your lips formed some sort of tight smile. At least, you hoped they had succeeded in doing that, and there wasn’t some sort of disfigured grimace that would be captured on camera.

A feeling of something close to comfort draped over your shoulders as you moved to pick up the next card. The questions had been easy, almost too easy, and you were falling into a lull of belief that you could take on all the twists and turns of the segment. Being honest wasn’t feeling hard.

But it seemed like God suddenly had a call to take, or the Goddess of the Moon had her attention elsewhere, for the easy questions came to an end.

> “ **Do I ever pop up in your head when you masturbate?”**

Several of the crew laughed at your reaction. Your jaw had dropped slightly, eyebrows furrowed at the card as if the ink could apologize and scramble into a more appropriate question. You hadn’t expected that at all.

Nor did you expect the familiar swooping feeling in your stomach, because you had the all-too-vivid memories of being with Harry. Knowing his moans, the grip he prefers, the words that, when murmured against his throat at the right second, could send him over the edge.

Harry didn’t seem to mind too much, only looking like a deer in headlights for a moment, before he reached out towards the bottle of tequila, an unsure chuckle mixed with a light hysteria coming from his lips.

“Gonna need to take a  _few_  shots for that one,” he joked, shaking his head, before drawing his hand back in. Your heart started thumping rapidly.

Inhale. Exhale. You could feel your cheeks burn, even if the red wasn’t noticeable it was still felt, and the light-headed spin within your mind increased.

But it was going to be alright, you weren’t going to die, despite feeling it in your heart that it could possibly happen, once your friends saw the video in a few weeks time. Telling it to yourself over and over, you blinked at Harry and your face squinted together, in a ‘ _hell, you gotta answer_ ’ type of way.

Harry was looking at you, his eyes a shade more serious than before. A flicker of confusion registered within the green, as if he weren’t accustomed to seeing you calm down so quickly (despite your anxieties not being apparent to the rest of the room, it seemed as though Harry hadn’t lost his knack for picking up on it) but he persisted on.

Fuck. You realized he was actually going to answer.

It wasn’t that you minded. The thought of him using the memories of you two wasn’t a slap in the face by any means. But it was more the confrontation of it that you were struggling to break through, escaping the ocean waves of wanting to know, while definitely not wanting to know. The waves were lapping up against the sides of your neck as you looked around, but no land was in sight.

You two were there, and the threat of drowning was imminent.

“I mean, yeah. Together almost three years, we had some good times.” His voice quietened by a fraction, as if the words would remain private. A cheeky grin still dug into his lips, a flush sort of pink dusting his cheekbones as he shrugged. But you know what he meant, beyond the clothes draped against half-done canvases and wallpaper samples.

You both knew how it felt.

* * *

“ _An apartment...all to ourselves,” Harry whispered, his fingertips stretching up against the bare mattress towards its edge. The sheets lay, arranged as if by a Greek sculpture, around your legs and Harry’s waist. His arm was around you, his palm laying on the small of your back to cuddle you in closer. He felt warm, smelled like coconuts. His chest rose slow, his breath evening out._

_The empty space was now, indeed, yours. Your mind had been whirling ever since you first saw the structure with ideas for patio design and kitchen layout, but Harry had managed to distract you for a quick “house-warming party for two, love, gotta do it right” that had lasted all afternoon._

_The sun was dipping lazily against the skyline, streaming golden and orange rays down into the home. Because it was a home now, with Harry and you in it._

“ _You still awake, love?” Harry tapped his fingers against your back, and you lifted your head sleepily. It felt like a thousand pounds, with your eyes fluttering closed while_   _your mind was trying to open them. Harry chuckled._

“ _Tired yeh out?” he teased, and you managed to peep your eyes open enough to roll them properly, before propping your head up on his chest._

“ _Just sleepy. Had a long day moving in boxes. And then again tomorrow...but you’ve got work, yeah?”_

_Harry made an affirmative noise, soft and gentle as he looked down_

_His hair had just grown long enough for him to be satisfied; curls caressing his collarbones and laying against the mattress like an angel’s halo. You didn’t have to open your eyes to see it, the image was painted across the skies of your eyelids after a year of admiring him._

“ _Gonna be another long day tomorrow,” you mumbled around the upcoming yawn, and you felt Harry brushing your hair back. His fingers got_   _caught, at times, against the messier curls, and he would untangle them. You’d do the same for him, if the positions were reversed, but your eyes only felt real when they were closed. Like the genuine rest would start when you weren’t looking around the room, wild ideas forming upon the walls._

_You and Harry spent the rest of your first night in your first apartment cuddled. He didn’t even bring out his camera when the sun hit your cheeks just right, instead feeling in his heart like the moment was best at the time it was happening. Never to be seen again, never to happen again, it was yours, and you were his._

* * *

“Had some good times,” you agreed, gesturing for Harry to pick up the next card. It sent your heart racing once more, the thought of Harry turning the question on you. The words were in his eyes, anyway, and it went beyond crude nights spent alone with lube and memories, and into something deeper. Something about whether you treasured those times still, whether they had been tarnished by an ending.

The truth was, you did. On the romantic nights when your bed felt empty, an ocean of sheets and cold pillowcases, with that itch of needing something to bring you higher, that you recalled the good times. It felt like in public eye, you had to maintain the appearance that you and Harry weren’t compatible, that something tragic had occurred, something was wrong within the relationship, and it was irreparable. And perhaps that was true, but your feelings had a nasty tendency to not align with the truth. Contradictions galore, your mind would go to Harry and feel something deeper than an ending.

Harry gave a short nod, cleared his throat, and picked up the next card. The opportunity of waiting allowed for you to glance around the room, making eye contact with one sounds-person who seemed particularly apologetic in the way they smiled.

> “ **How long did it take for you to get over me?”**

Before you could even think, he put the card down and shook his head.

“I know this,” he claimed, and your eyebrows rose in surprise, “You hooked up with Shawn two months after we broke up.”

It was what you had been trying to avoid in the conversation earlier, how the topic of Shawn had elicited jealousy and concern from Harry, and it was not entirely unfounded. You and Shawn had ‘hooked up’, but not to the extent Harry was perhaps expecting. Shawn had kissed you after a particularly rowdy rendition of  _Love Shack_ during karaoke night. It had ended there, because the guilt welling up in your throat felt like bile and you needed some air immediately.

It still felt wrong, even when the person you thought was ‘right’ was across the city, wanting nothing to do with you.

Harry finding out about that night wasn’t a surprise, since your friend group was still, a year later, overlapped in a few areas. What was a surprise was how Harry had taken that one kiss as a sign of you officially Moving On, as if a Facebook relationship status change and a quick peck could alter almost 3 years of passion and commitment.

* * *

> _Three months ago._

_The night had begun with dark purples and blues around your figure, the way your curtains draped against empty windows and the pillows were untouched on one side of the bed. Your friends were blowing up your phone, rattling against the side table persistently, trying to call you out of the depressing apartment and into the club life they were thriving within._

_You had already decided to join them but didn’t have the fancy of responding yet. The outfit needed to be perfect, you wanted to feel like you were alive through someone else’s light for the night, before making it official. It was a process of shedding who you had been the week prior and stepping into the greasy, sweaty club as if it were an ocean of opportunity._

_Through this endeavor, you found yourself deeper in your closet than you typically were. And that’s where it was, a small brown case with a white tag in the corner, gold stitching around the edges. The tag read “Harry” and your heart made a distant noise, six stories below, as it crashed through the floor._

_The moment quickly altered itself, adapting a more serious tone, and the thoughts to color-coordination drifted off like smoke from your mind as you crouched down. Picked off the lid. Looked inside._

_There were Polaroids. Dozens of them, stacked against each other and looped together with multi-colored rubber bands._

_Photos of you, photos of him, photos of the two of you together. Some were dirtier than others, some made you blush as you fingered through the stack, but others made you pause. Like the one where you were snuggled against Harry’s neck, with Harry’s smug smile peeking out in the corner. It was taken on your first anniversary with him, when the two of you were so broke you had to spend the celebration cooking each other mac’n’cheese with flowers from the Dollar General out on the table._

_Or the one where Harry was laid out on the bed, his hair curling against the pillows, shirtless and sleepily looking into the lens. You remembered taking the photo, standing up with your feet on either side of his hips, his hands wrapped around your ankles to hold you steady. You had taken your time getting the position right, making sure the light fell across Harry’s chest like cage stripes along the butterfly. Harry seemed absolutely smitten that you wanted to take a photo of him, cheekily asking, “Lookin’ good, hm?” in between shots._

_You cried that night._

_More than you had in months, you cried over what was lost. Even the happy moments made you cry because of their fleeting nature, how quickly they had become distant. You cried because you felt like you were mourning all over again, with the box of photos you had forgotten about in the back of your closet._

_Your heels were kicked off, your dress was splotched with mascara from wiping at your eyes, and you sat against the closet wall, your knees brought up to your chest._

_Within the tears held the question of what it all meant, why you hadn’t felt cried out over the entire situation. Why there were wracking sobs echoing against the walls, why the apartment suddenly seemed like a graveyard and you were a tombstone._

_And within the tears held the question of whether you had let go at all._

* * *

“I’ll take the shot,” you gestured towards the vodka bottle, and Harry’s body stilled, somewhat unnaturally, somewhat in shock. He was obviously stunned at whether that was confirmation of you genuinely having gotten over him within two months, which he had said more as an accusation than a sure fact. But you couldn’t find it in you to confirm or deny. It just  _was_ , and no matter what the truth had been or was still, you weren’t going to touch on it.

“Alright,” he muttered, and with how his head was turned away as he kindly poured you what would be your second shot, you couldn’t distinguish whether he was still shocked or had made the leap to upset. And you weren’t sure which you wanted him to be.

It was bitter going down, searing your throat a bit, and you shook your head immediately, feeling the racks of shudders going down your spine as you powered on through the shot. Several of the crew members laughed at that, and your head tilted up, leaning back into your neck as you cringed.

“Fuckin’ hate that,” you whispered, eyes squeezed shut, and you heard Harry chuckle quietly.

“Alright, your turn, love,” he gestured towards the stack, and on came the next question.

> “ **Is there anything you want to apologize for?”**

The silence extended beyond the two of you, into the scope of the room and surrounding the walls like a thin layer of lace. The itchy kind.

“I didn’t know how to talk to yeh. About what I was feeling, ‘n stuff. Figured we’d be okay, no matter what.” He took a deep breath in and his eyes settled on a particularly dark knot in the wood of the table, eyebrows furrowed as her continued. “I’m sorry for tha’. Shouldn’t have assumed yeh knew.”

“Knew what?”

“How much I loved yeh. How much I wished I could’ve solved things, early on before they got to be too much.” He was choking up at the end, nodding quickly and blinking his eyes. It took a moment before you realized he was close to tears, at the memories and at the loss.

You couldn’t say you felt any different, with your own throat closing up around your words.

“We tried our best,” you said, feeling your lips wobble around the smile as if unsure. Harry shrugged, like he didn’t quite feel the same but wasn’t going to argue. The emotions ebbed upon you both quickly and remained, a wave over your heads that didn’t return back to the ocean like it should’ve.

The final fight between you two could have been avoided. It was the cumulative frustration over months of miscommunication, of Harry always being at work, of him putting his school kids first, of you needing someone there with you, of you never knowing how to speak the words of that question, of both of you deciding to be stubborn instead of empathetic. It was a disaster, a war zone marked by scowls and hot tears and rattling doors.

* * *

“ _You can’t take_ one  _day off to fix this?” Your voice was shattered, glass shards etching themselves into the walls. It was quiet, as it always was when Harry had something to say but refused to get the words out. He’d just shut down again, seethe in his frustration, never confess to being pissed off, as if denial in itself could create a false reality where you were Okay._

“ _I’ve got work,” he said it pained, as if he were powerless._

_Perhaps you’d been privy to too much of his loveliness, saw too much of his bright sun, because you no longer believed in that. You knew he could do so much, that perseverance was nothing compared to his willpower, and yet you were never on the receiving end of his dedication and work, just an observer._

_It was watching him fight for everything but you that sealed the deal, in the end. You had enough empty spots in your heart from people who had left without a second thought about commitment, who took your love for granted and assumed it would last for miles (and it had, which was the worst bit). You couldn’t allow for Harry to make his mark like that. He didn’t have that power over you like he had for others, you had decided._

_Which was why you moved in with your brother the next day. Which was why Harry showed up the next night, still in his work clothes, with his teacher’s briefcase in one hand and your apartment key in the other._

“ _The fuck is this?” he spat, once you had stepped out onto the porch. The streets were slick with rain, the tree branches were weighed heavily upon one another, and Harry’s eyes were the scorched lightning setting it all ablaze._

“ _I’m done.”_

“ _What yeh mean, done? Done with wha’? Done with_ us _?”_

_A stunned silence._

“ _I said we’d work it out.”_

_He was trying to speak patiently now, talk down as if you had simply forgotten the way he had made you feel cozy and warm again, with promises and soft smiles, before leaving you once more._

“ _I asked for you to stay.”_

“ _When have yeh ever needed someone to stay?”_

_It was blunt, harshly spoken, his eyes unfocusing as he furiously blinked the rainwater from his vision. You didn’t move back, you never invited him beyond the porch gate, somewhat afraid of what you’d do if he came closer._

“ _In the past two years, not once have yeh ever asked for me. Never asked for my advice, n-never told me yeh needed me. What the fuck ‘m I supp’sed to do with that? Know magically that this one time is when you’re actually gonna open up, genuinely gonna talk things out? Not just take whatever path yeh want, without thinkin’ of me?”_

“ _I asked for you to-”_

“ _Stay. Yeah. You asked for me to stay.” He sighed and whipped his head to the side, attempting to sniffle discreetly. You knew that his hay fever was acting up, and you knew he was trying to pretend it wasn’t. A sub-drama within the original, a dialogue stupidly unspoken._

“ _And you didn’t.”_

“ _What would I be stayin’ for?” It was a serious question,_

“ _For us? To make it work, to talk about what we haven’t-”_

“ _Okay, fuckin’ fine. Talk. Tell me what yeh want me to know.”_

_You opened your mouth and closed it several times, unable to know what to say. It was a contradiction of overwhelming emotions and the realization that you had no idea. Everything had piled up on each other and digging through the past had no effect on the future, at that point, and you felt as though you had made your mind up the moment you left your key out on the dining table, a night bag stuffed with your everyday things, and your mind blank, to stop yourself from surrendering to him once more._

_You’d never forget how he looked, at that moment. In his loose button-up and jeans, with paint on his knuckles and his hair piled in a bun, he looked helpless._

“ _I’m waiting.”_

_After a few more moments, he shook his head._

“ _I’ll move in with Liam next week.” It was a shuddered statement, as if he had come up with that plan on the way over. And that was the way you two ended, because the cliff had been seen for miles and neither one of you pulled the damn car over._

_He paused, his body shifted back towards the gate. His hands were by his side, limp, already having given up far before his mind had, your apartment key loosely between two of his fingers._

_A minute later, you were back inside. Sliding down the back of the front door, letting your hands immediately rack through your hair, your vision blurry with the loss and the lack of focus, now that he was gone. Because you were gone, and everything was right, but it felt like devastation._

* * *

“Our best,” Harry repeated, but that didn’t even sound like enough.

The studio was silent.

> “ **Kiss on the mouth or take a shot each.”**

Approximately thirty seconds later, two shot glasses hit the table. You had downed your third of the day, as Harry scrunched his face as he got down his second. Neither of you had hesitated, both realizing that it would bring the level of discomfort to excessive levels. Perhaps if you two were at a friend’s house, wine bottles being passed around in front of the fire, a brief kiss wouldn’t have been seen as much of anything. But not for a camera. Not for the Internet.

The crew was amused how the two of you were on similar tracks of mind, and if you were sober you wouldn’t have found it as funny. But when Harry had his face all squishy like a boy who just ate a lemon, you couldn’t help the giggles that manifested themselves against your lips.

“Okay,” Chris interjected, and it was the river of smooth liquor that kept you two from jumping at the interruption. You had almost forgotten about where you were. 

“Just a quick question,” Chris continued, “One we’re asking all the couples.” He paused for dramatic effect, perhaps waiting for the right camera shot, before asking, “Do you feel you have closure?”

The director was bent forward, as if he were brought to the edge of his seat by something that wasn’t surprising in the slightest. Of course neither of you felt you had closure, and of course neither of you would confess to that. Whether the lack of a proper good-bye still haunted your bedposts was another ordeal, one you didn’t feel particularly keen to jump into.

“Uh,” Harry spoke with the stumbling eloquence you had somewhat missed, “Um-well, I-” his eyes flashed over to yours, and then to the side of the table, “Drink. I’m gonna drink.” You gestured with your hand to the bottles, as if inviting him to it, not quite expecting anything less.

His cheeks were flushed as he poured himself another shot, obviously quite upset that he had to further his count. He was an embarrassing lightweight, which you knew, and Chris most likely knew as well.

But Harry must’ve felt more comfortable with risking himself getting drunk on camera, than answering the question, or else he would’ve just confessed that you never let him have the opportunity for closure. And he had treated you similarly, it was a relationship destroyed like frayed clothing, feathering off near the end and getting caught in every sort of mechanism known to mankind.

You never quite understood metaphors.

Harry took the drink in one swoop, without a second thought, and despite you hoping he’d be the one to pour you a shot again, he was obviously needing a moment or two to adjust. So, you poured your own, saluted Chris with it, and drank.

Another truth avoided, and you were feeling like the haze of life had descended upon you. Warmed up and ready to strike.

It hadn’t occurred to you much, at the time, how drinking could speak volumes louder than an answer, one you could elaborate on. But no man ever said vodka brought him sense, so you continued on with the game, under the assumption that the shot glasses would be there for you if all else failed.

“Your turn,” Harry reminded you gently, nudging the cards closer.

You drew.

> “ **Would you be with me again?”**

There were flecks of gold in his irises, which felt cliche and overrated, but you were struggling to find anything else in his eyes. There they were, gold and glistening, and the gold was shifting around as Harry glanced away.

It didn’t quite sink in, the implication of his stance, how heavy the air became to everyone sober in the room. Harry nodded slowly at the question, more in the process of thinking over his answer than the nod genuinely being a response.

He started biting his lip again. 

“I’m gonna have t’ drink.”

Particles of the air shifted in that fraction of a second. They turned on their sides and pierced the nothingness surrounding them until there was an invisible knife pricking against your chest. It felt hot and unwelcome, and under the gaze of the entire crew, you were speechless for a few seconds.

“I can get why not,” you mumbled after a while, your fingers fixing your hair, the collar of your shirt, anything but how tightly wound the rope was around your neck. “If it didn’t work once, probably wouldn’t work again.”

“Just don’t know who you are, now.” Harry was nice enough to cover his true intentions as he poured the shot. The glasses clinked as they were rearranged and you noticed they were no longer in a straight line. Perhaps Harry was done with easing your tension, maybe this was it. The real pair, the couple of exes with nothing but honesty, a year too late.

“I’ve changed a lot,” you agreed. “Us ending definitely showed me where I needed to work on myself. Took a while,  _definitely_  took a while, but I’m getting better.”

Harry, his lips still pursed and his eyes squeezed shut from the nasty aftershock of the shot, managed to nod. When he was able to focus again, he spoke.

“Exactly. I think what was important for the two ‘f us to learn was tha’ we had areas to work on. And we did do tha’ work, but we can’t relive the past. No take twos.”

His words had become a touch more slurred, his head was nodding more from a gradual lack of balance than a genuine agreement. But Harry’s lips were still poised in a smile, in the dopey way his heart would grow whenever he was pleasantly warm.

You couldn’t say you were feeling that sort of happy high, tipsy warmth and giddy love, but you certainly were trying to keep yourself more put together than he was.

“I’ll go, then.” Harry’s hand reached out for the card, accidentally knocking one out of place. Shuffling them back, he drew up the top one again.

> “ **What should I change about myself for future relationships?”**

You were shaking your head before Harry was even finished with the question. Which wasn’t altogether impressively fast, because his speech was slower than normal. And he seemed confused by the words - perhaps more apprehensive - and each vowel was elongated.

There was no way you felt you had a right to answer. It had been too long since the break-up. If it were six months ago, maybe, you would’ve jumped through rings of fire to be able to tell Harry what you thought about him. But the truth was, you felt like you were a million miles away from how you both had coexisted a year ago. It was likely life had done Harry the same justice, and any advice you had that wasn’t founded in bitter resentment would simply be irrelevant.

In addition, if the question had been the other way around, there would’ve been no way Harry would’ve answered. There was a possibility you would’ve just died on the spot if he did - it would’ve been hurtful, to hear what he found was such a fundamental flaw within your character that it simply had to be changed in order to make anything work with another person. Some self-problems were designed to be discovered by the individual, not by their angry exes.

“Why not answer?” Chris spoke up.

“Can’t tell him what to do, he’s perfectly fine. Was both of us that made it not work, y’know?” your words felt like syrup in the way they glided from your tongue. 

“Yeh gotta drink,” Harry reminded you, a sloppier grin appearing on his face. He leaned forward, resting an elbow on the table and putting his forefinger and thumb around his lip. Sparks of fire ignited in your chest, from his eyes and how they consumed you. Once more, you were reminded how Harry could make you feel like the only person in the room, and how addictive feeling special could be.

“Know I do, Haz.” 

You readied the glass and popped back open the bottle, feeling like that noise would forever be associated with this video, with your heart racing and your fingers moving restlessly.

“Called me Haz, just then.”

You simply nodded at his observation, not bothering to look up at see his reaction. A momentary slip of tongue, but it didn’t mean much. A nickname was all, and you refused to think about it for longer than that.

You drank and then quickly picked up the orange juice. Harry, at the same moment, seemed to realize there was a chaser next to the bottles, and picked up his own glass. There was a momentary break so you both could ease down a little, not feel the punch of alcohol and postpone the gentle sway of future regret and public restroom vomit.

“You ready to continue? Just a few more questions,” Chris gestured towards the last two cards on the table, and you nodded, bleating out a question.

“Who’s turn is it?”

“Yours,” Harry answered, pushing a hand down and moving the cards towards you. You snapped finger guns at him, humming with your lips to indicate that you were impressed by his memory. 

It all felt smooth. A gradient of emotions, piled on top of another until the feeling was general existence. And it was nice, sitting across from Harry, seeing him after so long, knowing he was doing okay and he had been trying to improve. The harsh feelings were still there, but they were concealed by the concern of catching up, with the hopes of appearing fine on the camera would translate into actuality.

> “ **Do you think I’d be a good wife?”**

Harry’s head dropped down to his hands, his palms supporting his forehead as he moaned something unintelligible. It was a quick change of atmosphere but nothing grossly out of place for two drunk people, as the alcohol had a way of gliding over the rough patches.

You weren’t sure about marriage, in how/if it would come into your life. The topic had come up now and again during your relationship with Harry, especially when he had proposed the idea of moving in together. But the conversation was usually vague on both sides, more in the tone of possibility than probability. It simply wasn’t a major point within the way you two interacted, there was no planning or waiting for a one-knee-kneel and velvet box.

“’F course yeh would,” Harry moaned, and your eyes scanned his face, but the majority of his head was still tucked away.

“ _Fuck_ , thought yeh’d be mine, didn’t I?”

Silence.

A blank silence, a blanket of nothing cloaked your mind and your tongue. The thought had never crossed your mind, that he would be planning on proposing. He had never seemed the type to want to settle down quickly. Sure, in the deepest corners of your mind, you had thought what it would be like to take on his last name, or to have him take on yours, and to hold a ceremony to make your love ‘officially’ public, to have the societal relationship cemented by expectation and the ring to physically prove it. But it hadn’t felt realistic.

But there he was, sitting across the table from you, drunkenly confessing he had planned on making you his wife.

And all you could feel was the wet clothes on your skin again, the heavy rain that drowned away your relationship, the sopping weight of an apartment key left behind, the hollow carcass of an apartment that became too empty too soon, the rough edges of Polaroids with scratched handwriting left behind.

Near the end, you had started to think he wasn’t fully committed to the idea of your relationship. That there was a chance he was still looking - not actively, not by any means - but looking in the sense that if someone were to stumble along, someone who made his heart feel like it were floating a million miles in the sky, he would leave. Like he wasn’t completely tied down to you, because he simply was never there. That sense of loss before it had even manifested had brought you towards the edge of neediness, shoving you into desperation without knowing the language of asking for reassurance.

It felt logical at the time. If he wasn’t going to work at the relationship, if there weren’t signs of him planning in the future to cement your love more firmly, that meant he was losing interest. That he would leave, like so many others had, and you were going to be lost in another forest with dense trees of ‘not enough’. So you had lashed out before he could, you had burned the bridge before he had even set foot on it.

Your fear had brought you further away, until the crumpled bedsheets and pillowtalks had faded into sullen silences and avoidance, all while he had thought everything was going to be okay.

Harry lifted his head and dropped his hands onto the table. He looked at you warily, sensing the silence had extended beyond what could be a good thing. His hair was disheveled. His eyes were wet and the golden flecks were magnified.

“Oh.” It was all you could think to say.

Harry sniffled, his eyes batting away briefly as he raised a hand to wipe under them. A curl of hair shifted around the edge of his sunglasses as he moved, falling against his cheek. He brushed it behind his ear.

You were sitting as more an observer than an active member of the moment. It still felt surreal, amplified by the sensation of being drunk and feeling like nothing had a consequence, yet understanding at the core of yourself that this very much had a consequence.

“I’m gonna pick the next one,” Harry whispered, as if the microphone wouldn’t pick it up. You felt a flash of anger at how this moment would be exploited, because you knew it would, and his tears would become a part of the Internet. Floating between particles would be his confession, his vulnerability you hadn’t seen before.

He picked up the last card. You held your breath.

> “ **Do you still love me?”**

Despite the studio not having made any noise, a deadly quiet resettled itself into the air like a thick dust, gripping away the oxygen from your lungs. It seemed to affect Harry too, for when he was reading, his voice broke at the end. As if cut off by something other than his choice. His eyes went up to the ceiling, praying for you to not answer.

Your hands were in your lap, your fingers curling around the other nervously as you continued to sit through the worst drinking game of your life. Nothing could’ve saved that moment and it seemed the crew knew that as well. Many of them looked away, others couldn’t tear their eyes off of your quivering lip and wide eyes.

Any response seemed it had the potential to break him, but you couldn’t have him  _not_  know. He must’ve known anyway. People can’t wash away their first love like a stain, those kinds of relationships were never meant to fully end.

“Don’t think I’d ever stop. Just who we are.”

Harry’s eyes moved from the ceiling to meet yours. Underneath his eyes was a fine shade of pink, as he was trying to hold back the onslaught of hot tears, and after a moment you realized your eyes must have been the same. 

The edges of your vision were clouded, the bottles on the side of the table had been washed out with a visible slur. 

He looked at you silently, his lips moving without making a noise. It was clear he was trying to ask you again for confirmation with his own words and not the ones written on a card.

But he was still Harry and the words didn’t come out.

_Do you love me?_

“We grew up together, y’know? In all the adult ways,” your voice wobbled and a few tears slipped out, painting a fine line down your cheeks. “Can’t  _not_  love that. You’re a part of those moments, cherish them and I’m cherishing you.”

Harry made an odd light noise, somewhere between a whine and a noise of agreement. He was clearly caught between lines of emotion, unable to lift his intoxicated head above the waves. The drowning had begun.

You had accepted your fate a while back in the game, but it seemed it was only now that Harry realized the long-term impacts these questions could have. His hands were still on the table, palms down, the card between his fingers. You gently reached forward and plucked the card, placing it on the stack. As if that would help ease his pain.

And it  _was_  painful, there was no way around it. The immense loss you two had suffered, alone and unable to grieve with the other, irreparable slashes down your hearts caused equally by yourselves as by the other. It had just been a fuckery. The endings always were.

“Do you love me still?” you whispered, the whole spectrum of concentration you had left in your veins solely resting on the slope of his brow, how his eyes gazed into yours, and settled somewhat. Like it was comforting for him to see you.

Your head tilted to the side as you waited, and in the fog of your mind, you realized you had started holding his hand at some moment. Your fingers were wrapped around his outer palm, but he slowly turned his hand over. Threaded your fingers together. Moved his thumb against the side of your hand in slow, small movements. 

His heartbeat could be felt through his hand, a steady rhythm like a song you used to play on repeat for days. You had forgotten what it felt like to dance to it, but your heart remembered the tempo.

“I thought I didn’t, but now,” he paused, a sudden hilt in his throat stopping him from continuing momentarily, “Now I’m not sure.”

No one spoke.

No one moved.

His eyes scanned your face. His lips were slightly pursed, in thought, and his eyebrows were low. His thumb continued moving against your skin, as if it would be a comfort to you, but you knew it was mostly for him.

Chris cleared his throat softly, and whispered something to one of his assistants.

“Okay, you two,” he spoke louder to the two of you, but you were the only one to look over. Harry’s eyes stayed on your face, before dropping to the table. Harry’s thumb moved against your skin once more, slowly but with enough pressure that it was clear he had done it consciously. 

“I think we’re good, that’s a wrap. Gonna run through some clips, check audio and lighting, but then you’re free to go.”

You nodded, swallowing against the sudden lump in your throat, trying to snap back into reality.

His thumb stopped moving.

You looked over at your hands clasped together, wondering what it would feel like to no longer be holding onto Harry, now that the video was over.

The camera turned its ugly head away, the red light on the edge powering off like a suction of tension being lifted from the room. Chris and a few other of the crew started talking at normal volume, perhaps writing over the moment the best they could by avoiding looking at you two.

Harry sat back and cleared his throat, reaching his free hand up to wipe away at the growing collection of tears within his eyes. His hand began to untangle from yours, as you readied yourself to move on, to get over him again, to feel the impending loss with each step towards lot where your friends would pick you up.

It almost hurt more, losing him a second time.

Perhaps that was why you did it. Maybe it was the instinctive reaction to not ache again, to protect yourself by removing the hurt. 

His fingers were barely in your palm when you reacted, leaning forward again to lock your fingers around his. Firmly, with your eyes flashing up to him, a question in your eyes but not yet on your tongue. Harry looked at you, confused but more wary than anything else, before his gaze settled back on your joined hands.

“I would like it if we could go somewhere and talk.”

You hadn’t been able to ask him to settle down to have a serious talk for the past three and a half years, but the words slipped out as naturally as if you were asking him for the time of day. Harry’s confusion deepened before he realized that yes, you had spoken and yes, you had asked for him. Asked for  _him_ , after being so vulnerable and stripping away your false sense of brutal independence in order to get together with him for a half hour.

His soft smile indicated his answer was  _yes_ , but he accompanied it with a verbal confirmation, a nudge that he was headed in the right direction. Harry was hardly ever shy, but the rosy flush on his cheeks was only partially from the drink, and mostly because of your smile back at him.

Maybe you two wouldn’t talk things out and find that elusive ‘resolution’ nestled between the vast gap where closure was supposed to take root. Maybe you two would flare up in old arguments again and end up storming out, thunder and lighting booming again in your hearts and bitter resentment welling up in your throats.

But at that moment, Harry squeezed his hand around yours, and you felt your chest slowly rise up, the butterflies, forgotten but not gone, stretching out their wings.

Maybe you two could not let go, this time.

* * *

_A/N: Hope you enjoyed! I'm new to Archive, so please leave a comment/whatever it is here to let me know your thoughts :)_


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